


Impact

by MidoriEyes



Category: Hannibal (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Car Accidents, Disasters, Established Relationship, Eventual Smut, Fluff, Hannibal is a Cannibal, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Protectiveness, Romance, Slow Build, hannibal and will rely on each other
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-04-12
Updated: 2014-06-27
Packaged: 2018-01-19 02:07:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 8,086
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1451476
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MidoriEyes/pseuds/MidoriEyes
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hannibal and Will have had a pretty good relationship these past couple months, but with the pressure of keeping it a secret from everyone, AND having to track down a new serial killer on the prowl, does the good doctor and his patient have what it takes to keep the romance (and each other) alive? One fateful car crash later and they might just find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Artist

**Author's Note:**

> My first Hannigram fic. :) I'm planning on making it at least seven chapters, but that's subject to change. There will be thrills, there will be chills, and there will be fluff/smut at the very end, so sit tight! Hope you all enjoy what I have to offer. <3

Back...

…and forth.

Like the wiper against a pollen-stained windshield, remnants of the previous clutter were bulldozed into an afterthought, leaving a clear, yet not entirely tangible, view of what needed to be revealed.

Goodbye, paramedics. We'll see you in a few hours.

Goodbye, unfortunate victims, who looked like they belonged in a wax museum of horrors than on a dank muddy shoreline. 

Hello, future crime scene.

Their names were Paul and Lianne Solomos, both mid-thirties, newly weds for three months, no kids. The couple had been abducted somewhere near their home in Mt. Vernon and taken all the way to Mason Neck State Park. Here, along the underbelly of Belmont Bay, is where "The Artist" composed his latest masterpiece. Tabloid journalist Freddie Lounds had coined the nickname in this morning's entry on TattleCrime.com, but there were few who could call themselves a fan of this serial killer's work; least of all, Will Graham.

The special agent came out of his spell, eyes opening to the land that gently receded into dark waters, and started walking with a firm, purposeful stride.

_"I drag the subjects to what will be my canvas."_

The thick polyethylene bags nearly slip out of his grip once or twice due to their hefty contents and a case of sweaty palms. It's the excitement that causes him to perspire. 

_"I find an acceptable workspace, flat and unspoiled for what I intend to do."_

Unzip bag #1. If she's scared, it doesn't show behind the haze of sedatives she and her husband had been given.

_"Ladies first."_

Eventually both subjects, unclothed and unscathed for the moment, were maneuvered onto the bank just short from where the tide stretched its frothy edge. High beams from the abductor's vehicle provide a sufficient amount of light to work by.

_"Todays creation will be modeled after a piece from the great mind of Lord Frederick Leighton - worked on from 1856 to 1858, oil on canvas, fondly known as "Der Fischer und die Sirene"._

The Fisherman and the Syren.

_"I begin sewing the woman's legs together in an effort to replicate the syren's mermaid-like tail."_

The drugs in her system help dull the pain she would be feeling if fully conscious - an involuntary side effect. Her pale skin doesn't offer much resistance against the needle in his hand. It helped that the muscles were relaxed, allowing for a quick, clean process for what could have been somewhat sloppy.

_"Next, I take the man and prepare him for the role of the fisherman."_

A couple yards of velvet were draped over a boulder resting in ankle-deep water. He let some of the red fabric slosh against the waves, a sudden burst of giddiness hitting him when he realized how much the combination mirrored spilt blood. The male subject is placed directly over top the drapery in a position much like that of Christ on the cross. He, unlike the syren, is partially covered by a loin cloth.

_"With Leighton's vision in mind, I situate my subjects as they're meant to be portrayed - in a seemingly romantic gesture of love, lust... and deception."_

Once the fisherman was securely fastened via bolts and hammer, the syren was then pressed against his larger form, arms embracing and head tilted to meet her lover's heavy-lidded gaze. They were ready to be sewn in place.

At this point, every lethargic movement they made would hinder the more delicate procedure required to achieve perfection, so a final dose of sedatives was given to both subjects. It was just lethal enough to send them on a one-way trip to whatever afterlife awaited them.

_"The stage is set. Now we add the finishing touches."_

Pearls for her hair; a fishing pole in his hand; a medley of blue and green scales lovingly applied to the syren's legs. All of these elements brought the entire scene together. No, it wasn't an exact replica, but what could possibly compare to the original?

This was "The Artist's" aspiration; his passion. 

_"This is my design."_

 …

"Will."

The shuffling of shoes and muffled conversations came back to Will in a muted rush, like someone had just pulled cotton balls out of his ears. Everything was back in its proper place as it had been the two minutes before he'd gone into another one of his empathetic trances; that's what he liked to call them now. Simple analysis of a crime scene had a certain level of control that his "trances" did not.

There was a very fragile surface tension between the hallucinations and anxiety attacks he experienced throughout his everyday life and the state of mind he entered when seeing what these killers see. Will was in no condition to harness this quality of control that'd been granted to every other human being like some basic civil right.

That's why Doctor Lecter was here - to hand him the paddle he needed to stay afloat before sinking back into his nightmarish riff.

"What do you see?" Hannibal asks in the same soft tone he uses in and out of the office. The man only had one volume, apparently.

Will grimaced. For a split second he found the sunset over Belmont Bay to be pretty, despite the fact that their victims were practically bathed in its harsh orange glow. It was too much like the painting.

"A fake," he answered. 

Hannibal minimized the distance between them now that he was sure Will had joined them back in the present. "That is one way to view it. I see it as an installation; a live rendition of a classic. One might argue which version makes a more powerful statement."

Will snorted. "It's more like graffiti than a statement."

"Graffiti cannot deliver a message?"

"Well, yes and no." He let a knowing smile escape, curls bobbing as he shook his head. "There's a difference between presenting an idea to the masses and vandalizing for the fun of it." 

Hannibal crossed his hands in front before responding. "Which do you think this 'Artist' was trying to convey?"

"… Neither." Will says after some thought. His eyes dart back and forth between two invisible points as he forms his conclusion. "He's not trying to tell us something with these murders, nor is he haphazardly throwing paint around like some Jackson Pollock impersonator. This goes deeper than that. It's…" The doctor tilts his head, but doesn't push Will to finish until he's ready. "… It's a tribute."

"To--"

"To what, right?" Will chuckles and gives Hannibal a twitchy shrug. "I honestly can't say. Not yet, at least."

"You don't suppose this could be another case like Abel Gideon's - taking credit where credit isn't due?"

"Mmm, this guy's not about claiming the rights to century old artwork. I don't even think he really admires the painters he's taking inspiration from. An artist treats every brush stroke like a building block. If something's out of place, it'll be glaringly obvious to them."

"Is it to _you_?" Hannibal takes two shallow steps forward, hanging on the edge of each word coming from Will's mouth.

"More or less. You see, our killer doesn't treat his victims like the subjects, although he may pretend he does. They're merely dolled-up mannequins used to create a bigger picture. They're a necessity, but not the main focal point."

"You're saying the fisherman and syren do not command center stage in this performance." Will couldn't tell if that was meant to be a statement or a question, but either way he had a response. 

"Because he leaves out one very important thing that every standard work of art has; the structure that holds it all together."

"The frame." It never ceased to amaze Will how quickly the older man could catch on to his train of thought. Heck, he probably figured it all out half way through the explanation.

"Exactly." The special agent closed one eye and made a box with his fingers, holding it up to the crime scene. "People think the frame doesn't have much to do with the painting itself, but in fact it is one of the most important elements. We, the viewers, are only allowed to see whatever is inside the frame. Anything beyond that seemingly doesn't exist. It's one of the powers an artist has over their audience. But…" He lowered his arms. "… Take that away, and suddenly the intended subject enters into our own world, where the focus could be here, there, anywhere. He's creating a gallery with no frames; no boundaries." 

"No remorse." The doctor said while scrutinizing the mediocre stitching job that joined Paul and Lianne's midsections.

"Given the method of his process, yes."

"So now we have two Van Goghs in the family?" Jack Crawford's voice rolled in like far off thunder. The two investigators turned to address him. "As if the Chesapeake Ripper's artistic taste wasn't enough already. I'm correct in assuming this isn't the same killer?"

"Right," Will shoved his hands in the warm interior of his coat pockets. "This guy isn't so much bringing swine to the slaughter as he is using them for a higher purpose." 

"That, and none of the organs are missing." Jack sighed as if it were a bad thing, which it was in the sense that they had yet another nutcase to track down. "No incisions, no signs of brutality pre or postmortem. The only plausible cause of death would have to be whatever these two were injected with." 

"This has been confirmed?" Hannibal asked.

"They discovered needle punctures in the victims' necks, just like the last few times. We'll know what it is he served them once they're taken back for further examination."

"Have we found any leads on why he's targeting couples in the first place?" Will crossed his arms, a slight chill seeping through his plaid button-up.

"Other than all his murders being based on paintings with a romantic theme, there's no connection between his victims in any unique way, shape, or form. At least none that we know of so far. I'm starting to think this guy has no motive besides getting the chance to draw all over the walls when no one's around." 

Except this time, mommy and daddy were the medium of choice. No one would say this out loud, however.

The doctor noticed a slight twinge in Jack's expression as he arched his neck to one side, a large hand coming up to rub on the sensitive tendons. "Are you experiencing neck pain, Jack?"

The inquiry caught his friend off guard. "Hm? Oh, yes." Jack digs slow circles into his skin as he speaks. "I must have slept on it wrong, or something. I'm actually seeing a chiropractor friend of mine after we wrap up here."

"It is persisting?"

"For a couple of weeks, yeah."

"You should have told me. I've adjusted many of my patients who suffer from seizure-induced neck and joint pains."

"Oh no, it's fine. I wouldn't want to take up any more of your time than I already have," Jack smiled politely. He'd been pampered by the good doctor too much since their first meeting. "Speaking of which," he continued, "I need to start heading out. Got about a forty-five minute drive back." Everything had been winding down for the last hour, so the few others who weren't on cleanup or body duty were preparing to leave as well. "Doctor, my friend's office is a bit out of the way from your home. Would it be alright if we got someone else to drive you instead?" 

"I can."

The invitation from Will was so abrupt that it was startling. "You sure?"

The smaller agent shrugged. "Yeah, s'fine. As long as Doctor Lecter doesn't mind us stopping for gas along the way." He knew he wouldn't.

"Well, okay then. I'll call you later about the rest of the report. Drive safe." He shared a glance with Hannibal before turning to exit the hot zone. After passing the spotlights that'd been glaring down on their crime scene, it was near impossible to see the agent's retreating back.

Hannibal turned to Will first. "Shall we depart as well?"

With one last skim over the bodies, which were currently being removed from the boulder now that the forensics team and photographers had gotten what they needed, Will answered with a quick "yep" and led them towards the lot where his Sedan was parked.

Mason Neck State Park was actually a very beautiful area. Several dogwood and wild oak trees towered along the path that guides visitors to different sections of the grounds. It would've been a sight to behold during the day, and probably a lot less haunting. Then again, a murder did just take place not far from where they were walking, so the gloomy atmosphere wasn't that unorthodox. 

Will's eyes began tracing the frayed bark on a nearby hickory, his mind briefly mistaking it for the scales stuck to Lianne Solomos' fused legs before Hannibal snapped him out of his stupor. "I believe it went rather well for you this time around."

Will blinked a few times to make sure he was still planted in reality. "O-oh, yeah. It did."

He was referring to the younger man's empathetic abilities, and it was true. The last few cases where Will had lost himself in the clockwork of their criminals had been… rough, to say the least. It normally ended with him on the verge of a full blown panic attack, many of which incapacitated him from working for the rest of the day. The doctor's presence helped somewhat, but Will hated that he was dragged to these investigations just because of him and his special brand of psychosis.

"Thank you for taking me home." Hannibal figured it be best to move on to light conversation. "I must say, your eagerness to volunteer was quite endearing." 

Will let out an embarrassed laugh. "Subtlety is not on my side tonight. Do you think our cover's been blown?"

"Most certainly. If Jack hasn't figured it out by now then I might start to doubt his ability as head of Behavioral Sciences," the doctor joked.

These bouts of simple teasing had become an integrated part of their relationship as of late. After a short discussion some months ago, both therapist and patient had decided to keep this little affair on the hush-hush. Technically, since they weren't actually working together, it shouldn't have any affect on their job performance or sense of judgement. Two grown men in their mid-thirties and forties shouldn't need a blessing from their friends and colleagues, but Jack was the one who originally involved Hannibal in their investigations; he could just as easily cut him out of the loop. Why jeopardize an already good thing by risking it out in the open?

It was the first time Will had genuinely smiled that day. He rubbed his nose to make sure nothing was leaking out from how nippy it was tonight. "I really do need to get gas on the way back, though."

"At least that much is true then." More teasing. "And it's not a problem. I have no further plans for this evening, as I'm sure you don't either."

It was a long shot but… "We could make plans." 

Hannibal sensed the question in his partner's voice and wished it had been said with more confidence. Although, he _did_ initiate the invitation, which was noteworthy. The younger man shouldn't need to feel so skittish around him just because they made more personal calls and shared a deeper human intimacy than before. For the most part, everything was still very much the same.

Hannibal had made his intentions known not long after the incident with Tobias Budge. It made the doctor realize that just because he'd nestled himself into Will's life as stubbornly as any tick would to a dog, it didn't mean the bond couldn't be easily severed, especially by something as impromptu as death. The relief he felt when that curly-haired danger magnet walked through his office doors was what pushed Hannibal off the precipice of his hesitation. He needed Will with him - body, mind, and soul. Developing a romance between them didn't necessarily guarantee safety or stability, but it seemed to be doing more good than harm for now.

Will had needed time to process the confession, of course. Hannibal anticipated this. Obviously the words "date" and "you" were not on Will's list of things his friend might say to him on a Tuesday afternoon during therapy. A week later, and Hannibal was still as patient as the day he told Will to take his time, but the special agent was ready to reciprocate. His way of putting it was "I enjoy your company more than most" and "let's just see where it goes". Thus, the beginning of a beautiful, and slightly perilous, courtship.

Hannibal put on a show of mulling over Will's suggestion in his head before handing over an answer. "I don't see why not. Did you have something particular in mind?" 

A quick shrug in return. "I was thinking along the lines of food. I didn't exactly have time for lunch today.

"Unfortunate," Hannibal chided. Of everyone on the planet who could afford to ditch a meal, Will Graham was not one of them. "What would you be in the mood for, and where?"

"Well, it's almost ten, so there goes most of our eating out options, which leaves your place and my place… unless we just want to share a gourmet bean burrito under the fluorescent lights of a gas station?" Will figured he could get the health nut to at least cringe from such a notion, but it'd been too obvious that he was kidding around. 

"One might resort to that if they needed to prepare for a colonoscapy," Hannibal smiled, receiving a laugh from the special agent.

"Your place it is, then." They both knew that's where their decision would have ended up anyway.

 


	2. Wraith

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An old friend of Will's makes its presence known.

It was a peaceful drive from the bay parking area to Mason Neck's entrance. The air had gone stale in a tunnel of trees that led them to the gates, suffocating any trace of the evening wind Will had felt through his window beforehand. He was starting to get a little claustrophobic, to be honest.

"I've never visited this place." Hannibal mentioned off-handedly during their 25mph crawl out of the park. "A shame to think what this murder will do to business."

"I've come out here a couple times with the boat, mainly on weekends. It's a good spot for bass fishing, or just wanting to…" He paused, cycling through his thoughts for the right wording. "… unwind."

Hannibal felt a tinge of pity. The refuge Will had built for himself here had all but been shattered by the world he so desperately tried to avoid and, at the same time, cultivate. Like a plague of locust, it followed him wherever he went and consumed what little sustenance the special agent had left to stay rooted in civilization. "When did you come here last?"

A breathy laugh. "If I could recall that, I'd be in pretty good shape." They turned onto Park Dr., the series of pops under the tires becoming less and less as they made a switch from gravel to asphalt.

Hannibal's eyes caught the glow of a cop's vest up ahead. "If the urge to return here ever arises, I'd be more than happy to accompany you. I regret to say that the last time I took a personal holiday is a distant memory for me as well."

Will was taken aback by the offer, never figuring Hannibal to be a big enough fan of the outdoors to want to spend his time off on what would essentially be a fishing trip. If anything, the doctor would be more in his element at the opera house, or in a ritzy lodge somewhere along northern Europe. "Have you ever been fishing before?" He asked.

"My Uncle Robertus took me once when I was seventeen, but it became evident rather quickly that I did not possess the hands for such a trade, nor the patience."

It was funny to think of Dr. Lecter without his usual abundance of patience. "Oh? What makes you think it'll be any different with me?"

"Believe me, Will, your presence is infinitely more preferable to my uncle's. I wouldn't have suggested it otherwise."

Will pressed his lips together, flattered and amused all at once. "Alright. It's a date then."

The "d" word still felt very foreign on his tongue, but Hannibal's tiny smile put his nerves at ease almost instantly.

"I'll mark my calendar."

A policeman who'd been stationed near the pay booth waved them on through once the electronic arm had risen for passage. Neon streaks of caution tape were adorning both sides of said arm as a precaution to the general public. Not like anyone would try and get in tonight with how late it was, but it'd be a couple of days before the park was again able to accommodate visitors. After all, no one was certain that the killer had actually left the grounds after completing his work. Protocol would have the FBI searching high and low for suspicious activity before giving the O.K. to resume operations.

But the majority were in silent agreement - their perp had indeed given them the slip for a third time in the last week.

According to his pattern, "The Artist" had been hitting towns that were only about an hour apart from each other. It wouldn't make any sense for him to stay here unless he'd been taking a nap until authorities arrived. Even Wolf Trap was a possible target. The town was no stranger to young couples and newlyweds looking to settle in its developing suburban neighborhoods. This information alone wasn't conclusive enough to put everything on lockdown, but at least if their guy did strike, they'd be within a more reasonable distance to track and apprehend this tabloid-proclaimed "artist".

The way finally started opening up after they'd passed a wood carved "Mason Neck State Park" sign near the frontage road. There was little to no traffic on the highway at 10 pm, so the time it took to reach their exit towards home was considerably less than the drive to the park. Since there weren't any other cars around, Will took the liberty of switching on his brights. Street lights were scarce in rural places like this, making it almost impossible to see anything past your windshield. And, unfortunately with the evening fog setting upon them like a thick wool blanket, visibility would soon become a luxury.

"Do you know this area well?" Hannibal asked casually.

"You'd think I would after making the trip down here a few times, but I take a different route coming from Wolf Trap. Since we're going to your place it'll be a bit of a scenery change for me."

"Shall I pull up a map just in case?" He glanced to Will's cellphone nestled in the cup holder between them.

"Normally I'd say don't bother, but with the fog like this…" The agent's sense of direction was pretty keen, having learned to navigate throughout his years of sailing. Leave it to mother nature to screw up his mental instruments.

Before he could finish his sentence, Hannibal was already tapping on the GPS app of his phone. The doctor's face was splashed with a dim blue light that barely touched the first button on his suit. Will preferred to have the brightness on a lower setting. It hurt his eyes when looking at it in the dark, otherwise.

Eventually, they had to change from brights to fog lights, desaturating the white wall of mist into a translucent veil not unlike that of a ghostly bride's. It was still a little difficult to see, but going forty-five from the suggested sixty helped alleviate the contingency of danger.

"Just let me know when we get close to the next big turn off," Will said lowly, squinting to see whether the road's dotted lines curved up ahead or not.

"Certainly. In the meantime, is there a dish in particular you would like for our late night supper? I have a few leftover lamb roasts from yesterday, but if you're fishing for something different…" He'd had company from the sound of it.

"Lamb sounds great," Will smiled, a wave of exhaustion suddenly pressing into the cavity of his eyes - he was running on fumes at this point. "Can't even remember the last time I had it."

"Paired with some potato gratin and ratatouille niçoise, you should be feeling better in no time."

"I can't imagine I wouldn't be after one of your meals, Dr. Lecter."

"Ah, flattery will get you everywhere, Dear William."

This banter. He had missed it after a bombardment of case files and mutilated corpses. Will's giddiness was stopped short, however, when a sharp thrum ran from the back of his head to his temples. Trying to suppress the ache was impossible after three big pulses that steadily intensified with each beat of his heart. Hannibal saw his partner's discomfort and immediately addressed it.

"Will? Are you alright?"

"Uh, yeah. I'm fine. Just a slight headache is all." He breathed in deeply through his nose, thinking it'd look less severe than if he'd sucked in a big gulp of it. The agent ended up hissing through the last second, eyes closing momentarily before realizing how terrible of an idea that'd be while driving.

"We can stop if you need to. I'll take the wheel."

"No, no, it's okay. This happens sometimes. It'll p-pass," He stuttered during a particularly jarring pressure in his brow, but the consistency was starting to ebb, thankfully. Why these things had to attack when Will was actually having a good time was beyond him.

"How often?" Hannibal tried to keep Will talking. It was one of the only ways to ground him during a nasty spell like this.

"J-just… a couple times a week." They both knew it was more than that.

The agent sighed, willing away the lingering hum of pain until it was nothing but a faraway shadow in his cerebellum. The meds Will had taken four hours beforehand probably helped him get through this quicker than usual, but he couldn't say the same about the soreness. Another dose might be in order later that night. 

"Like I said…" Will continued, wanting to pacify that trace of concern in the doctor's eyes. "They're short-lived. I'll survi--"

He stopped himself and briefly wondered if a couple pills of Asprin would be capable of extinguishing light hallucinations as well, although it seemed unlikely. It'd sure come in handy now that the stag had appeared on the road not far from where they were.

Same oily color, same feathered mane around its neck, same crown of horns… At least they weren't on fire. The animal was as still as the mist surrounding it, steam unfurling from its nostrils like the devil himself, and those deep obsidian eyes ever watching from a face so hollow and rigid that it might as well have been carved from stone. It looked directly at them, or more specifically at Will, and showed no signs of moving once they were a few feet away from colliding. The stag wasn't worried; Will wasn't worried. At least not until Hannibal called out to Will in a tone more alarming than he'd ever heard his therapist speak in all the time they'd known each other.

And then came the acute force of impact as he swerved to the right and grazed the doe along her hip - eyes white; horns gone; headlights revealing a silver-gray coat of fur snug against her lean flank as it rippled against the Sedan's hood, all before she was flung out of view like a stringed puppet pulled too harshly from the stage.

Will was stuck between a void of shock and reverie. Had he done it? Had he finally rid himself of that damned apparition? Was this the moment he clicked his heels three times and arrived home with a clean bill of mental health? It was hilarious to think it'd be so simple, but he wasn't laughing.

Asphalt was replaced with a dense tree line that dipped twenty feet below street level before evening out. Will felt weightless for a few euphoric seconds, still wondering whether this was all part of the mirage his mini migraine had undoubtedly triggered. It wasn't until he felt something sturdy push him back in his seat that his senses reawakened from the phantom-fueled obscurity.

The world was spinning, and it kept spinning even after the blow to his consciousness had been dealt.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the cliffhanger. :T More soon!


	3. Saboteur

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The aftermath of the wreck, and Jack's progress on the case of their "Artist".

For a moment Hannibal believed himself to be at his desk, lights off and curtains drawn in the guise of after hours. He felt like an intruder in his own habitat, just reclining there listlessly as if waiting for a congregation to which no one else had RSVP'd. His sight was blurred, suggesting that the doctor may have woken up from a nap he didn't remember falling into, or, under the more extreme circumstances that he typically found himself in, he was drugged. The latter seemed likely judging by his tethered movements, and there was nothing binding him where he sat.

The signal from brain to body was firing on all cylinders, but a response was null. Darkness fell over the office as he struggled, and pieces of furniture began morphing into different silhouettes or fading away entirely. It was a similar fanfare he'd often witness during sleep paralysis.

Hannibal had these as a youth after moving in with his uncle, but it'd been a good twenty or so years since his last experience. He eventually came to embrace them as the living breathing dreams they were - a theatrical enactment featuring his inner wraiths, as intrinsic and deep-seated as they were at the time. It's where a lot of Hannibal's modern inspiration came from, and he suspected that taking these visions with him into consciousness was what silenced them in the limbo between sleep and awareness.

There was no immediate jeopardy when in sleep paralysis, despite any cosmic demons that manifest, but the change in environment Hannibal's workspace suddenly rendered was cause for surprise. Like water on ink, the redwood of his desk melted into an ashy gray, as did most of his surrounding possessions. He watched the transformation, curious what other realm his semi-cognizant mind would force him into while, in truth, he relished every bit of it. There was beauty in a world ungoverned by substantiality.

Hannibal was disappointed when he saw the previously softened shapes of the vehicle he was in. He felt the rise and fall of his chest and the muscles behind his eyes as they twitched and uncrossed his vision, all very real sensations that reacquainted him with the state of being fully awake. Even more grounding was the flare of discomfort throughout his body, specifically the arms and head. Perhaps he had ben drugged after all - the slew of backbiters he'd attracted since his partnership with the FBI were not in short supply these days.

By chance, the passenger sun visor had been jarred off of its hinge with the mirror in full view. Hannibal could see a partially dried rivulet of blood snaking from temple to chin on his left side. It didn't seem too bad; head wounds were easy to bleed. Fortunately, the seatbelt had locked when his body lurched forward, saving him from the brunt of the airbag which he tried to avoid upon impact.

That's right. There'd been an accident.

The image of the young doe, with her eyes flushed metallic green from the car's headlights, came back to him in a flood. Hannibal remembers alerting Will to the danger just a moment too late before she careened off the hood to become tomorrow's macabre roadshow for passing motorists. From the looks of it, they would have joined the exhibit had the doctor waited any longer to point it out. Time management was a well sharpened tool of his, however.

Most of Hannibal's efforts had been focused on his smaller companion at the time, who could've surely had his neck broken from how hard they hit the tree presently crunched against the Sedan's front. It was no wonder Hannibal's arm felt so tender. That airbag would've left a nasty scab had he not been wearing long sleeves.

He lifted his head, ignoring the stiff neck pain that followed, and turned to see the FBI agent slack in his seat and facing him, eyes closed and hair more unruly than usual if that was possible. No blood or bruising around the head, but a bit had smeared under his nose from nicking either the airbag or steering wheel - definitely not the worst that could've happened thanks to Hannibal's quick actions. The rest of his upper body was disheveled but in tact for the most part. He couldn't say the same for Will's legs until they were moved.

Hannibal slowly unbuckled his seatbelt, the click-clack of the mechanism echoing through a silence that'd been hovering over them for who knows how long, and adjusted himself for better access to Will. At first glance, his neck doesn't seem compromised, but to be safe Hannibal doesn't move the head's position when he presses two fingers under the scruffy jawline for a pulse check.

Heart beat is normal, breathing relaxed… Nothing to be concerned about just yet. His eyelids are pried apart, showing a peak of Will's blue iris tucked up beneath his brow. No burst veins or optic damage from what Hannibal can make out in the dark; he only had the light of one working headlight reflecting against the tree's trunk.

After a little more careful prodding, Hannibal came to the conclusion that no serious trauma had been dealt to the neck or the vertebrae that held it in place. His fingers strayed from the column of Will's throat towards his cheeks, gently brushing aside stray hairs that had been cemented in dried sweat. It was with genuine relief that Hannibal sighed through his nose.

If they were to be separated one day, it wouldn't be left in the hands of fate and whatever tapestry she'd woven, but on his own terms. No force of nature would strip him of that.

A faint glow caught Hannibal's eye. He recognized the blue square reflected in the windshield as Will's phone that had been thrown upon the dashboard, miraculously unblemished, and still displaying the map from earlier. A little red dot meant to pinpoint their location was frozen in a field of green next to the road it had previously been crawling on.

Hannibal could barely make out the tiny white numbers in the corner - 11:37 PM. He'd been out for about an hour and a half, and Will should be coming along shortly.

One could only wonder how to pass the time after surviving a nearly fatal car wreck.

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The ringtone's dual-pitched trill distracted Jack from wondering whether Bella would be in bed by the time he got back, or if he'd spend another night feeling the tell-tale dip in their mattress once she finally decided to join her very awake husband. He could never get to sleep without her presence, or the smell of that flowery lotion that she liked to rub on her arms and legs post-shower. It was quietly starting to fade away from their pillows and sheets, much to Jack's dismay; too much a reminder of the wall that had developed between them, each brick laid to further stunt any remaining communication they may have had in a past life. The man did what he could to breech those forts when not at work, but the amount of time he spent at home was cast in the shadows of those he hunted. The balance was skewed, and it would take more than midnight pillow talk to rectify it.

Jack slipped the BlackBerry out of his inside coat pocket and put it on speaker as he answered whoever was ringing him. The agent had forgotten to check the caller ID - very unlike him. "Crawford."

Teddy Halliway was on the line, a fellow FBI agent who became Jack's eyes and ears on long distance cases. Halliway would be there whenever the other shoe was ready to drop, and Jack would hear it just as quickly as if he were on the scene. It seems they were fortunate this time around. There was a lead.

"A couple of teenagers snuck onto the grounds sometime around 1 AM on the night our victims were dropped off here; said they heard a motor going not far from the trail they were on. All park personnel had gone home by that time, and any vehicles they use during the day are locked up in a garage near the administration building. No signs of forced entry or missing vehicles."

Great. If two high schoolers were able to get past security then it would've been nothing but child's play for a serial murderer. "Did the kids see whatever this guy was driving?"

"Nope. Just the headlights. One of them says it sounded small, like a motorcycle."

Jack hummed in protest. "He would've needed something bigger to transport two bodies and all his supplies from point A to point B."

The other agent paused in contemplation. "You thinking a utility vehicle of some kind?"

"Maybe. Something small enough to get by without looking suspicious."

"What, sewing dead bodies together on a beach isn't suspicious enough?"

"Not when nobody saw it happen." Jack couldn't hide the tiredness of his voice. He pinched one eyebrow between his thumb and forefinger before picking up the phone in his lap to hold it closer to his face. "Do we know what direction he was headed?"

"The kids were about 3 miles away from the main entrance not far from High Point Rd. Apparently, our mystery man was on a dirt trail and making a beeline due north-east toward Gunston Rd, one of the borders for the park."

"And he got out that way? To my knowledge, there's a twelve foot tall fence that surrounds the entire perimeter, and an overnight guard stationed at every exit. How could he have scaled that thing?"

"That's what we're about to find out. I'm heading there now with my team to see what we can find along the borderline. If we're lucky, we'll find his supposed getaway car."

"If we're lucky," Jack repeated solemnly. The wall was a sturdy wooden construction, painted dark green and further disguised with a blanket of ivy for aesthetic purposes. The only way their killer could bypass that structure would be to climb it, or cut right through the wood. Jack almost hoped his agents would come across a giant gaping hole to at least confirm their perp's escape route.

Walls - Jack Crawford's most loathed and tedious enemy in and out of tracking down psychopaths.

"Alright. Keep me posted, Ted," he sighed.

"Will do, boss."

Jack hung up without looking at the keypad, and set the phone back in his lap in case more calls came through. With one hand on the wheel now, he let his head relax against the headrest, smiling in silent praise at the pain he no longer felt in the back of his neck.

Jack's visit to his chiropractor had done wonders, though the hour long appointment was not only to have the larger man adjusted. For the last thirty minutes, he and his friend had caught up - job, kids (of the one man who had them), and home life. For whatever reason, it was comforting to burden someone outside of his field of work with the worries and hardships he chose to carry on his shoulders alone. Dr. Anthony Frazier didn't stare at him with sympathy, or try to change the subject in hopes of transporting Jack to greener pastures, which, as green as they may be, would never be readily available when he needed them most. Tony was always a good listener, and that's what Jack needed at this time. A few words of encouragement later, Jack had scheduled another appointment for next month and gotten back on the road towards home.

As he waited for more info from Halliway, Jack figured the next best course of action from his position would be to inform his profiler of what they'd discovered. The BlackBerry rang five times before the gravelly murmur of Will's voice told him to leave a message. Odd, but it was pretty late, and it wasn't like they'd broke ground with their killer just yet. The call could wait until morning.

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Will's eyelashes stuck together before he could fully open them, blinking away the grogginess. A wheezy groan hissed low in his throat as he forced himself to adjust to the sparse amount of light in his… car? The tiny star-shaped chips in his windshield confirmed this. Will remembered how irritated he'd been having to drive behind that clunky old construction truck with pebbles spewing out from beneath the tires like an array of miniature catapults launching their attack. Not that his Sedan had ever turned heads before, but whenever anyone asked about those cracks he just blamed it on the hail they hadn't received to put a quick and easy nail in the conversation. Living out in the middle of nowhere, he could get away with it.

The engine was quiet, and the only sound Will heard was his own breath shakily rushing in and out of his nostrils, along with something wet. He brought a hand up to inspect, wincing from an unknown pain in his elbow, and drew back to find blood lining the ridges of his fingerprints. Before the agent could get a decent look at where his car had magically ended up, Hannibal's voice sent a shot of adrenaline through his system.

"Will."

The doctor hadn't actually spoken all that loudly, but it felt amplified due to the confined space they were occupying. Will whipped his head around, which was followed swiftly by a sense of vertigo dousing his once recovering perception of what was happening, until his eyes finally met Hannibal's. They didn't stay there long after noticing that trail of blood from a rather sizable bump on the older man's forehead.

"How are you feeling?" Hannibal squeezed his shoulder. He hadn't even realized the hand was on him.

Will didn't trust himself to speak without first swallowing. The back of his throat was paved with fresh saliva, extinguishing the slight sting from open-mouth breathing. "A little disoriented, but I'm f… fine, I think." Honestly, he's not quite sure what he's supposed to be feeling at the moment. He shuttered out the first few syllables of his inevitable stream of questions, but Hannibal beat him to the punch.

"We've been in an accident," he says coolly. 

His pause allows Will time to process, this new piece of information finally giving some context to what he sees. "Accident…" The profiler breathes. It should've been obvious, as they were rammed into a tree, but Will wasn't one for falling asleep at the wheel. He'd hit something; something big, and dark enough to have risen right out of the black tar surface of the road itself.

"I hit… there was a deer." Will tensed, afraid for a moment that Hannibal's side of the story would not yield the same results.

"A doe. She was small, and easy to miss." As if that microscopic comfort was supposed to make anyone feel better.

"Shit," he cursed. A part of Will chastised himself for refusing to stop and wait out the earlier migraine, knowing what those things were capable of doing to his fragile state of mind, while the other half was congratulatory for having a hallucination that partially reconstructed what he was actually seeing, give or take an antler and a few feathers. Will doesn't tell Hannibal about what he had actually perceived, instead shifting the focus onto his partner's own well-being.

"You're bleeding." It was dried, but no less alarming.

"All minor injuries; nothing to worry yourself over." Will nodded, seemingly put at ease for the time being. Hannibal's poise under pressure was as astounding as always. "But, I suggest we call for help as soon as possible. Can you move?"

The shock Will felt, made sluggish and dim-witted by his own weariness, allowed him to muse over the thought of Hannibal as a flight attendant. He would do well during a plane crash, or in any field that required utmost calm under a great amount of stress, truthfully. In response to the half question, half command, Will tentatively unbuckled his seatbelt and dragged his knees up into a 90° angle. Nothing felt off, so he scooted back until he was more upright, drawing in a deep breath to see if anything on the inside was ailing him. Other than the dull burn in his bloodied nose, and a bit of premature bruising here and there, Will didn't think they'd need an ambulance on the scene just yet. With such minor injuries they probably wouldn't need one at all, although there was always the threat of a concussion.

"My phone. Where…" He scanned the floorboards, the dash compartment, and the cup holder that last held his cell, but all that turned up was some used napkins from past drive-thru meals and loose change that would never be used, unless road tolls started accepting nothing but two nickels and a penny.

Will's eyes spotted an even larger crack in his windshield. The headlight's glow was cast into its jagged cleavage, shooting across the surface like lightning. It ended with a smaller shatter, but not on the terrain at which it had started. Will felt himself deflate at the sight of his banged up cell phone - dark, dead, and useless from the crash. He tentatively reached over and slid the device into his grasp, hoping that the damage was merely superficial despite the spiderweb design adorning his screen like gaudy jewelry. Pressing the power button a couple times was all the answer he needed.

"Perfect…" Will muttered. He threatened to let it drop at his feet. What good was a broken phone in their situation? Nonetheless, habit and a convoluted sense of self-preservation won out in the end, and his front pocket felt tighter for it.

"We have no way to call the police, then." Hannibal announced as if he were guiding Will through the steps in a homework problem. Although it wasn't spoken, he could hear the suggestion in his therapist's voice: find an alternate solution for x.

"What about your phone?"

"Tragically, it's been left on my bedside table to charge. Unless you have a working radio, I'm afraid we are devoid of outside communication for the moment."

Moment was an understatement. A sigh escaped Will as he let his head fall back onto the seat, eyes closed to shut out the pair of inconveniences they'd just been dealt. He wondered, briefly, if they were supposed to end up here in some fairytale cliché where "destiny had a plan" for them, or some such nonsense. Theories like that were squashed quickly enough; Will was never one for sugarcoating his otherwise bitter life experiences.

"Looks like the adventure will be yours and mine today," Hannibal said in a sedated attempt to ease any rising panic.

Déjà vu.

That was probably as persistent as the doctor was going to get, so Will forced himself to sit up and clear his thinking. Indeed, survival had been placed solely in their hands. It wasn't an unfamiliar feeling, but Man VS Nature was often a one-sided battle, unlike the FBI's conventional playing field full of monsters in human clothing. Getting into a car wreck at midnight, miles away from civilization, was something neither a profiling agent nor a psychiatrist engaged in on a near daily basis.

Not that we can't handle it, Will thought. Two grown men, roughing it in the wilderness with only the critters and their wits to keep them company. "This isn't exactly the fishing trip I had in mind for us," the agent caught himself saying out loud.

"Nor I." Hannibal had responded with something like amusement in his tone. "But I suppose we must make the best of it."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I seem to only be capable of doing shorter chapters for now, but that might change when I'm more in the writing mood. Don't worry though, the quality should still be there (I hope)! 8U


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